


Better?

by luciferslittlehellhound



Series: Little Panics Series [2]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, College, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:19:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferslittlehellhound/pseuds/luciferslittlehellhound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock progresses thought the years, he can still only find a sense of calm when with John...</p>
<p>              ------------------------</p>
<p>A warm head rests on his shoulder, and a comforting, small soft hand encircles his wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [balthazar_in_221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/balthazar_in_221B/gifts).



> So I thought I would make these into a series? Maybe? Yes? No? Thoughts please!

"Freak"  
The whisper calls as someone passes him. He tenses, trying to let the comment fly over his head, it's not like he isn't used to it. He hears other people snigger and his cheeks heat up; burning embarrassment onto his face. He reaches down to his feet as an excuse to hide away, and starts to get his books out. The lecture theatre is almost full. Except for half of his row of course, as always. He stacks his books up on the desk, then reaching down for his laptop, before smacking his lanky elbow clumsily into his neatly piled books. The theatre bursts into laughter, people pointing and different pitches of amusement fill the room. He feels his cheeks burn and flush, and wishes only to be swallowed up by the earth. He scrambles to his knees, rushing to retrieve the fallen books, constant jeering still echoing around him. "What a freak." Somebody snarls, others giggling in response. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, trying to calm himself. One... Just ignore them. Two... They're imbeciles. Three... They are uneducated. Four... But what if... Five... They're right. Six... I'm a freak. Seven... Freak. Eight... I can't breathe... The realisation hits him. He can't breath. His chest is tight all around, like somebody is crushing him and pushing him from all different directions. His eyes fly open, filled with a new panic. Because. He. Can't. Breathe. Some part of his brain kicks him, stop it, it says, you're fine stop it. He knows he should listen to his brain. It's right. Panic attacks are common in people of all ages and sexes and mostly appear out of the blue. It's just your fight or flight reflex. It's just... That he's dying, and he can't breathe, and everyone can see, but everyone is quiet, and then someone is calling out, the professor is calling out, and he sounds worried, maybe its because he broke up with his girlfriend last week, her photo has been removed from his desk, her cat's hair no longer resides on his clothing, but that's not it. He grips his seat tight, still on his knees from trying to collect his books, his knuckles white. His thoughts die down as his brain shuts off, as he flies completely into panic mode. His vision blurs; tears and lack of oxygen both playing a part to his impaired vision. Tremors wrack his body and he is going mad he knows it. Someone grabs under his arms hoisting him up, making the world tilt and sway. NO, he wants to scream, NO can't you see I'm dying, you idiots I'm dying. And then he's outside. Fresh air hits his face and he falls to the ground, the floor spins as someone tries to move him closer to a curb. His head gets shoved between his knees; a hand rests hesitantly on the back of his head.   
"God Sherlock." A voice breaks out. The hand begins to play with the tightly curled hairs at the nape of his neck, and someone gently lowers their self down next to him. Aftershave, peppermint tea, fresh paper; scents waft through the air and up his nose. Familiar smells. It smells like home' he thinks.   
"God Sherlock," the voice repeats steadily, "What are we going to do with you?"  
The tremors slow down but don't completely stop, his head still whirls at a million miles per hour. A hand strokes through his dark, unruly curls. Which normally he would hate, but right now...  
"Breathe Sherlock." The voice commands, familiar and calm. "If you don't start breathing I will have to take you to the hospital again, and you know how that will end." A warm head rests on his shoulder, and a comforting, small soft hand encircles his wrist. He takes in a shuddering breath, telling himself to stop being so stupid. Calm. Down. His heart rate slows down, his breathing calms, and he is almost certain the shaking is now out of cold, biting air rather than panic. The body nests to him vibrates with a deep sigh, and he can feel warm breath brush his cheek, sending a tingle down his spine. He sighs in response, shoulders still tensed.   
"Better?" The voice queries.   
"Better." He says firmly. He looks up, grasping the hand clenched around his wrist, and stares into the ice blue eyes he know he will find. "Thank you, John."


End file.
